The last claim I closed

I just found an old file folder in the back of my desk drawer—no label, just a faded sticker that said 'Hannah M., 2017.' Inside was a single photo: a little girl with scraped knees, grinning beside a dented bicycle. The claim was for a fall from the bike, but the medical records were minimal, and the notes said she’d been fine by the next day. I never sent the final approval. Never wrote the letter. I kept it open because I couldn’t bear to close it. Now I’ve done it—finally. And I don’t know if I’m relieved or more sad than I was before.